


Setting 420

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same old, same old: the Doctor and Clara Oswald. On the TARDIS. Getting high. Snuggling. Shacking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting 420

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Road to Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741928) by [levendis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis). 



> Loosely inspired by 'Road to Nowhere,' by levendis, which is great fun and is located here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3741928
> 
> Mine has more porn, fewer deep-fried mars bars.

“What a miserable week,” Clara announces to no-one in particular, and thank fuck (for a change), the TARDIS is wedged into the center of her flat. She'd rather face a hundred Daleks than another department meeting or parent-teacher conference, though she has her heart set on trying to find that hot tub again. Without knocking, she strolls into the TARDIS, rubbing her forehead with one hand as she slips off her heels with the other. 

“Long day?” the Doctor asks, surprisingly attentive though only briefly glancing up from the amp he's fiddling with. 

“Longest week,” Clara reiterates, slouching against a railing.

The Doctor chews on this a moment. Something sparks and he swears. “I've got it,” he says sagely around the burnt fingertip he is sucking. With his other hand he pilots the TARDIS.

“Doctor, I really don't know that I'm in the mood for an adventure,” she confesses. “Feeling a bit...tightly wound.”

“Mm,” he agrees thoughtfully. “You do look rather more compact than usual.” Ignoring the daggers aimed at his t-shirt-covered chest, he rummages about in a set of boxes until he finds what he is looking for.

“What happened to wearable technology?” Clara chides him. Still, she can't help but feel a bit of nostalgia for the old screwdriver, no matter how fab they look in the shades.

“Some of the settings didn't translate. Some of them particularly useful to a woman in your condition. Setting 420, for instance, is an excellent stress reliever.”

Clara giggles. “Tell me that's the vibrator.”

The Doctor is scandalized. “Don't be daft.” Pause. “That's Eight-Six-Nine, as it happens,” he adds guiltily.

Clara barely has time to digest this before he answers her next question by producing a small baggy of dried leaves. “The Hash of Rassilon?” she snorts.

“Maui Wowie,” he corrects her modestly. “Ace wanted to go to Hawaii—you would have liked her—and, well, we didn't use it all.” He extends the claws at the tip, packs some leaves in, and closes them again. He unscrews the pommel of the device to reveal a mouthpiece and grins. 

“How is that going to affect you?” she asks. “I mean, weed's pretty mild even by Earth standards; what about that superior Time Lord metabolism?” she teases.

“ _Superior_ Time Lord metabolism,” he stresses. “I'll be pleasantly buzzed for a few hours.” He smirks. “Come on,” he invites her, leading her to the door of the TARDIS. “I extended the air bubble and rotated the polarity on the external gravity,” he explains proudly.

“Which means...” Clara prompts.

“This!” he cries, and her stomach does a flip as they crawl onto the outside of the TARDIS, using it as a bench in space. “Here,” he says, offering her the sonic bong, “good for nausea, too.” he elaborates, spreading out his coat to cushion the wood of the exterior while she takes a toke.

“Thanks,” she says, flopping back and letting her stockinged feet kick gently back and forth over the edge of the ship. She takes another pull before handing it back, letting it out slowly and watching the stars twinkle through the smoke. 

“My pleasure,” the Doctor replies, laying down next her, a carefully measured distance away. She can see his bare arms in her peripheral vision, which just seems bizarre—her Doctor, always so buttoned up, no matter his face. And now, perhaps, finally unwinding, she wonders. She hopes. She watches jealously as he blows a perfect smoke ring out into the void, watches it freeze and crystallize as it exits the air bubble. She shivers, just thinking about it, and she can picture the gears that must be grinding away in that massive brain of his before he sidles closer to her. 

“Purely to keep you warm,” he says gruffly. He fidgets. He wishes there was a notecard for slowly getting stoned with the best friend you wanted to shag into next week. Of course, he could actually do that. Had actually done that, and neither Nyssa, Tegan, nor the zigzag plotter had been the same since. 

“Of course,” she laughs, and rolls over onto her side to curl against him. He shifts slightly so that his manhood isn't two inches from her elbow. “God, what a bunch of teenagers we are. Getting high, sitting on the roof of the car, excellent view...” This last fills him with terror; is she looking at him? “You could even get out that guitar of yours and play me a crummy love song you wrote in your parents' garage.” He rolls over, letting her spoon him, because the sonic screwdriver is obviously not in his pocket. Come to that...he takes another drag to still his nerves and starts naming constellations. “Doctor?” Her breath is unspeakably hot against his neck, and he can smell the pineapple notes of the weed on her breath. “Do you?” Her hand traces a slow, easy arc to his belt, which is doing yeoman service keeping him restrained, because he can feel every curve of her body through his t-shirt and plaid trousers.

“Clara, you're high.”

“I've had two puffs. Unless you've laced this stuff with the sex pollen we found on the planet of the jellyfish giraffes--”

“We promised not to talk about that.” Thank the fates, the natives had helped restrain them before they had gotten too naked that time.

“Spoilsport,” she teases, voice husky. One finger traces the square of his belt buckle. He tries to tell himself the budding euphoria is just the dope talking. 

“There's always setting eight-sixty-nine,” he offers.

“Fine, but it'll be you I'm thinking of,” she blurts out. Fuck, she thinks, this is why I don't get stoned very often. She reaches up for the screwdriver, resting above his head, but things get a little fuzzy and she winds up straddling him, laughing, breathless. This, at last, is too much, and he seizes the lapels of her cardigan and pulls her down for a long, slow kiss. “Doctor?” she asks, giving him the chance to back out, even now, but he just attacks her buttons with a gleeful clumsiness. 

“Clara,” he replies simply, and the next thing he knows his trousers are drifting in the stellar breeze, weightless and clinging to him by one ankle. Clara takes a moment to pitch her dress, her knickers, and the sonic back into the TARDIS, because, “Damnit, Doctor, I don't want to lose focus in the middle to wonder where my most comfortable pair of panties have gotten to.” He nods in acquiescence and has just gotten his t-shirt up over his head when she pounces on him, knocking him onto his back. He can feel the slick of her arousal on his chest as she clambers over him—oof! Hopefully this stuff doesn't give her an appetite because she bloody well weighs enough as is—and hooks the tangle of his shirt onto the TARDIS's lantern. He plays along with the appearance of being trapped, not least because apparently fine motor control is the first thing to go. Who knew?

Clara grins down at him, those big, beautiful brown eyes just a touch unfocused, and kisses him. _I like biting; it's like kissing but with a winner._ The TARDIS may need to amend that statement, because Clara Oswald is definitely winning this kiss, youth triumphing over experience. Though, he supposes, she does have more experience in her body than he does in his. And now she is winning whatever her teeth are doing to his left nipple. He moans and arches his back against the TARDIS exterior and prays that his beautiful ship will refrain from giving either of them splinters in hard to reach places. Perhaps in the future he will extend the rule to include no hanky-panky on or adjacent to the TARDIS, depending on how the old girl feels about the matter, though Rassilon only knew River had his last face up against her often enough, and the TARDIS always approved of her daughter. “You look good,” she says, no hint of sarcasm or deceit in her voice. (Naked, bound, yearning, utterly at my beck and call, she thinks. Yeah, damn good. And the silver fox thing doesn't hurt matters either.) He would blush at the complement but he is pretty sure that all the blood in his body currently has Clara Oswald's fingers strumming up and down its length. 

“Thanks,” he manages, and looks at her. Tries to come up with something fitting to say. “You're, that is...” Tries. Fails. Her fingers reach his tip and she feeds him inside of her. “Oh.” This is new, he thinks. New is good. I like new, his brain continues, addled less by the pot and more by the sight of Clara riding him like a bronco. Her small hands close around small breasts; starlight glints from the sweat of her exertion. He plays the part, bucking back into her, letting go and letting go. 

“Mmm,” she opines, looking down at him, mangled, spent. She finishes herself off, still riding him, helped along by the weed and a twinge of psychic blowback from him. “Thank you,” she says, tucking herself down onto him like a kitten in a patch of sunlight. This body, he thinks, has mastered the art of standing still. Which is good, he decides, because just over five feet of schoolteacher is tugging his coat on top of herself and settling in for a nap, using him as the mattress. “I think I love you,” she says, a little dreamily, straightening up a bit to put her arms through the sleeves. (He shouldn't like the way she looks in his clothes so much. He bites his lip and tries to figure out how best to coax her into his polka-dot shirt.) 

“I love you,” he tells her snores. The TARDIS whirrs approvingly, and increases the exterior temperature to account for their state of undress without him even having to ask. He frees his wrists so that he'll be able to use his shoulders tomorrow and cups her ass. She drools on him in reply. “Such a sexy minx, my Clara,” he whispers, and kisses her less drooly cheek. He lays back, and basks in warmth, starlight, and just a whiff of cannabis.

**Author's Note:**

> For explanation of the title (which was actually more than I knew before I decided to provide a cite) see here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/420_(cannabis_culture). Other titles considered included "Tokin' Female," but between Missy, Ohila, Kate, the Osgoods, the regenerated General, etc., Twelve's looking more and more like the token male. Not that this is a problem.
> 
> For explanation of "setting 869," 1869 is the year that "The Manipulator," an early steam-powered vibrator, was invented. Because nods to steampunk dildos was exactly what this fic needed, obviously.
> 
> Also apparently my brain is stuck on "Twelve and Clara are adorable together, have sex." Darn.


End file.
